She stopped in the doorway, and turned her head round,
sniffing, in a very pronounced way. “Oh,
it’s you,” she flashed on Wilfrid; “it’s
you, my dear, that smell so like poor Chump.
Oh! if we’re not rooned, won’t we dine
together! Just give me a kiss, please.
The smell of ye’s comfortin’.”

Wilfrid bent his cheek forward, affecting to laugh,
though the subject was tragic to him.

“Oh! perhaps I’ll sleep, and not look
in the mornin’ like that beastly tallow, Mr.
Paricles says I spent such a lot of money on, speculator—­
whew, I hate ut!—­and hemp too! Me!—­Martha
Chump! Do I want to hang myself, and burn forty
thousand pounds worth o’ candles round my corpse
danglin’ there? Now, there, now!
Is that sense? And what’d Pole want to
buy me all that grease for? And where’d
I keep ut, I’ll ask ye? And sure they
wouldn’t make me a bankrup’ on such a pretence
as that. For, where’s the Judge that’s
got the heart?”

Having apparently satisfied her reason with these
interrogations, Mrs. Chump departed, shaking her head
at Wilfrid: “Ye smile so nice, ye do!”
by the way. Cornelia and Adela then rose, and
Wilfrid was left alone with his father.

It was natural that he should expect the moment for
entire confidence between them to have come.
He crossed his legs, leaning over the fireplace,
and waited. The old man perceived him, and made
certain humming sounds, as of preparation. Wilfrid
was half tempted to think he wanted assistance, and
signified attention; upon which Mr. Pole became immediately
absorbed in profound thought.

“Singular it is, you know,” he said at
last, with a candid air, “people who know nothing
about business have the oddest ideas—­no
common sense in ’em!”

After that he fell dead silent.

Wilfrid knew that it would be hard for him to speak.
To encourage him, he said: “You mean Mrs.
Chump, sir?”

“Oh! silly woman—­absurd! No,
I mean all of you; every man Jack, as Martha’d
say. You seem to think—­but, well!
there! let’s go to bed.”

“To bed?” cried Wilfrid, frowning.

“Why, when it’s two or three o’clock
in the morning, what’s an old fellow to do?
My feet are cold, and I’m queer in the back—­can’t
talk! Light my candle, young gentleman—­my
candle there, don’t you see it? And you
look none of the freshest. A nap on your pillow’ll
do you no harm.”

“I wanted to talk to you a little, sir,”
said Wilfrid, about as much perplexed as he was irritated.

“Now, no talk of bankers’ books to-night!”
rejoined his father. “I can’t and
won’t. No cheques written ’tween
night and morning. That’s positive.
There! there’s two fingers. Shall have
three to-morrow morning—­a pen in ’em,
perhaps.”